Hermione's Letter
by SallyCat11
Summary: An eleven-year-old Hermione receives her Hogwarts letter.


Hermione's Letter

It was Sunday afternoon and Hermione sat hunched over her desk, the yellow glow of the lamp flooding over her notebook as she scribbled. Rain drummed on the roof and the trees were dim outlines through glass rippled by raindrops.

Hermione bent over the paper.

_S-U-R-R-E-P-T-I-T-I-O-U-S. Surreptitious: secret, stealthy._

She frowned at the word she'd written down in her notebook. Was that right? Were there two Rs or one? She'd copied it from the blackboard at school, but the teacher could have been wrong. Her hand leapt to the dictionary on the desk beside her and she hurriedly flipped through the Ss. Yes, two Rs, thank goodness.

It was the fifth year spring spelling bee in just one week's time, and Hermione was terribly behind. She'd only been studying for a month, and she could tell that she wasn't nearly as prepared as she should be. Hermione clenched the pencil, her nails digging into the wood. She could see it now: she'd be standing on the stage, and Mr. Garner would lean towards the mic and say in his booming voice, "Surreptitious!" and her mind would go blank. She imagined the whole class sitting in the audience, staring up at her. There'd be a laugh—just a quiet chuckle near the back—and then the sound would grow and she'd blink and the entire room would be roaring with laughter and pointing up at her, just like they had when—

_No._ _Focus._ She couldn't let it happen. _S-U-R-R-E-P-T-I-T-I-O-U-S. _Two Rs.

She had just begun to flip through the dictionary to check the spelling of the next word (tumultuous: characterized by disturbance) when she heard a sharp knock on the door downstairs. Her hand paused on the dictionary and she twisted around in her chair. Through her open door, she could see down the stairs to the brown welcome mat, and she thought she saw a long shadow rippling through the front door's marbled glass window.

"Coming!" she heard her mother call from the drawing room.

Her mother opened the door, and standing there on the mat was the most peculiar old man Hermione had ever seen. He was dressed in what seemed to be a midnight blue dressing gown, with black buckled boots poking out from beneath the hem. His long, white beard brushed the black belt around his waist, and half-moon spectacles perched precariously on his crooked nose. Hermione grabbed her vocabulary notebook and crept to the top of the stairs, peeking around the wall to watch.

"Ah—hello," Hermione's mother said, staring at the old man. "Can I help you?"

The old man smiled. "Yes, I think you can, thank you," he said, and he stepped past Hermione's mother into the house, looking with interest at the polished foyer. "I must say, your garden is most admirable. Are those begonias by the fence?"

"Er, yes," said Hermione's mother, hurrying after the old man. "I'm sorry, who—?"

"My name is Albus Dumbledore," the old man said brightly, holding out his hand for Hermione's mother to shake. She took it, looking bemused. "I'm a professor at a boarding school nearby called Hogwarts. I don't expect you've heard of it."

By Hermione's mother's expression, it was clear she hadn't. Hermione frowned. She hadn't either, which bothered her; she'd spent a great deal of time researching the best boarding schools in the United Kingdom, and she hadn't heard of any Hogwarts. She supposed it must not be a very good one.

"Professor Dumbledore, I'm sorry, but I have a feeling you're at the wrong house," Hermione's mother said gently, but she inclined her head towards the door in a clear indication that he should leave.

Professor Dumbledore paused, tilting his head thoughtfully. "That is possible," he said, nodding. He reached into a deep pocket in his dressing gown and withdrew a slightly yellowed letter with a red wax seal. Hermione inched forward, trying to see the address on the front, but before she could make it out the man had broken the seal and unfurled a letter.

"To Miss Hermione Granger," he read, and then he displayed the letter before Hermione's mother's eyes. "I believe this is the Granger residence?"

A letter, for Hermione? Hermione inched down a step on the stairs, peering down at the professor. The only letters Hermione had ever gotten were from her pen pal Alexandra who lived in Spain, and they had all come in crisp white envelopes with lots of stamps. This one looked nothing like Alexandra's letters.

"Oh, yes," said her mother. She took the letter, frowning, and then her eyes widened in shock as she read its contents. The surprise passed quickly though and her face broke into a smile.

"This is very funny," she said, laughing. "But I've never been one to fall for practical jokes, sir, and I have to say this isn't a very good one. Maybe you should go for something a bit more believable next time."

At that moment, Hermione's father poked his head out of the drawing room to see what his wife was finding so amusing.

"Honey, look at this," she said, handing the letter to him. "Isn't it funny?"

Hermione's father examined the letter. He chuckled.

"Yes, this is quite good," he said, giving the letter back to Professor Dumbledore.

Professor Dumbledore smiled too. "I do understand why you would think I'm joking," he said. "But I beseech you to hear me out. Would you invite me to your sitting room? And perhaps I could see Miss Granger?"

Hermione's mother looked at Professor Dumbledore for a moment, as though trying to assess whether he was the sweet kind of mad or the more threatening kind. Her eyes lingered on his long white beard and dressing gown. After a moment she sighed, seeming to take pity on him, and exchanged a resigned look with her husband.

"I suppose just for a moment," Hermione's father said grudgingly.

"Come sit, I'll get us some biscuits and you can tell us about this Hogwarts," Hermione's mother said kindly to the old man, and Professor Dumbledore happily followed them towards the drawing room. Before he disappeared through the door, he glanced up at the stairs and Hermione thought she saw a barely perceptible wink. Her heart thudded and she took another step down.

"I must insist that Miss Granger see the letter," she heard him say from the drawing room.

"I really don't think—" Hermione's father said, but Hermione's socked feet were already padding down the remainder of the stairs. She paused for a moment outside the door, feeling strangely nervous, and then she peeked into the drawing room.

Her mother and father had gone through to the kitchen; she could hear them murmuring to each other as they collected tea things. But Professor Dumbledore had folded his tall frame into a small chair across from the fireplace and was humming softly as he examined the pictures on the mantelpiece. Now that she was closer, she could see that his dark blue dressing gown was finely embroidered with a hundred pale silver stars that seemed to twinkle in the firelight.

"Is there a letter for me?" she said.

"Miss Granger, it's a pleasure to meet you," Professor Dumbledore said, smiling at her. "Come have a seat."

Hermione perched herself on the end of a chair by the fire, hugging her vocabulary notebook against her chest. Professor Dumbledore looked at it, raising his eyebrows.

"I'm studying for my spelling bee next week," Hermione said.

"Ah," said Professor Dumbledore, smiling down at Hermione. His blue eyes crinkled behind the half-moon glasses. "How very sedulous of you."

Before Hermione could ask what "sedulous" meant and how to spell it, her parents had returned from the kitchen, her mother balancing a plate of ginger biscuits and her father carrying a pot of tea. They placed the food on the low table in front of Professor Dumbledore, who politely took one and popped it into his mouth.

"Well," he said, taking another ginger biscuit. "I suppose you'd like to read your letter."

He pulled the letter out of his pocket again and held it out to Hermione. Hermione glanced quickly at her mother, who smiled in a fake sort of way, as though telling Hermione to humor the old man. Her father shrugged as if to say, _why not_?

Hermione took the letter; a large shield with the words "Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry" was emblazoned across the top. She read:

Dear Hermione Granger,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

"You can send your reply through me, of course, since you lack an owl," Professor Dumbledore said when Hermione finished reading.

Hermione stared at the letter.

"It's a wonderful joke, dear," Hermione's mother said. "But that's all it is."

"I know," said Hermione. "Magic isn't real, everyone knows that." She couldn't help feeling a little unsure, though.

Professor Dumbledore reached for another ginger biscuit. "And sometimes we can make the most intelligent assumption under the circumstances and still find that we are woefully wrong," he said. "Think back. Do you remember any strange occurrences happening around you?"

Hermione's father laughed. "Surely you're not serious."

Hermione's mother didn't seem so cavalier, however. Hermione frowned. The truth was, if she really thought about it she _had _experienced a few strange phenomena lately. Just this morning, she'd noticed that her notes from Friday's lessons had somehow become perfectly sorted, when she distinctly remembered them being egregiously messy when she brought them home on Friday afternoon. Then there was last week when Hermione's teacher had announced that the fifth years would be playing football during their physical activity hour. Hermione had been dreading having to play (she always managed to fall on the field) but had been greatly relieved when the ball mysteriously refused to stay inflated and the teacher gave up after reflating it three times with a pump. And there was that time with the book report when everyone laughed…but she'd promised herself not to think about it.

Professor Dumbledore was watching her face. "You see," he said, smiling.

"Now see here," Hermione's father said. He was starting to get frustrated. "It's all well and good to come bother us with a joke letter—I have a sense of humor—but to start filling our daughter's head with nonsense—I think it's time for your to leave, sir!"

Professor Dumbledore did not seem distressed by Hermione's father's words.

"A perfectly understandable reaction," he said. "Perhaps you require a demonstration."

Professor Dumbledore reached into the deep pocket of his dressing gown again and swiftly withdrew a thin polished stick. He displayed the ginger biscuit on his outstretched hand, tapped it sharply with the stick, and Hermione and her parents watched, mouths hanging open, as the biscuit morphed into the shape of a man and leapt from Professor Dumbledore's hand to the floor.

"Oh!" said Hermione's mother. Hermione's father simply gaped at the biscuit, unable to speak. The ginger man had stopped at the doorway to the kitchen; its thin icing mouth curved into an impossibly devilish grin before it vanished around the corner, it's tiny feet pattering over the linoleum floor.

"You'd best go after it, Miss Granger," Professor Dumbledore said casually. "I've seen biscuits cause more damage to a kitchen than a Cornish pixie in a china shop."

With a glance at her mother and father, who still sat stunned in their chairs, Hermione dashed after it, eyes wide. She skidded to a halt in the kitchen, breathing hard, and stared around. For a moment she thought it must have left the room (or maybe it had never existed at all, and her eyes had lied to her) but then she spotted a flicker of movement by the toaster and there it was: a little man, made entirely of what appeared to be ginger biscuit, waving at her. Before she could move, it stepped to the edge of the counter, swaying precariously.

"No!" Hermione cried out, her hand reaching reflexively to save the little man, but it had already tipped forward and it landed with a thud on the floor.

"Oof!" it squeaked, and then it scuttled behind the fridge. Hermione approached it cautiously; she shut one eye and peered into the inch-wide crack between the wall and the refrigerator. The little man was slumped against the wall, catching his breath. He raised his arm briefly to acknowledge her, panting too hard to speak.

"The Gingerbread man!" Hermione whispered, and she blinked. But when she opened her eyes he was still there.

It took her about ten minutes to coax the little man out from behind the fridge, but she finally lured him forward with some milk. When she returned to the sitting room with the biscuit held carefully between her thumb and index finger ("Put me down!" it said in a squeaky voice, kicking its feet) she paused outside the door to the livingroom, listening to Professor Dumbledore and her parents speaking inside. The ginger man seemed to sense the importance of the situation and quieted, listening too.

"And this happens often? A child having these abilities is born into a—what did you call it—"muggle" family? There are others like her?" she heard her mother ask.

"Yes, about ten percent of our students are muggle-born."

"What could cause something like this, though?" Hermione's father said. "Was it something she was exposed to?"

"It's not a virus, John."

"Well, I'm just asking—"

Hermione leaned against the wall and stared at the ginger man. Could this really be true? She had always felt a little different from her classmates, but she'd attributed it to how much she cared about school while they—well, didn't. But maybe there had always been something more that made her strange. Maybe she could finally find people like her at this Hogwarts. Her heart gave a leap.

"Exactly what do you teach them at this boarding school?" Hermione heard her father ask then. "Will Hermione be behind, because she didn't grow up in a family with magic?"

"Excellent question. Our students study an assortment of subjects, from potions to charms to magical creatures. When our students leave Hogwarts, they are ready to use their magical abilities safely and integrate into broader Wizarding society. Muggle-borns catch up to their peers in hardly any time at all."

"But is it really safe, Hogwarts?" said Hermione's mother. "Would Hermione be safe there?"

"We take great care to ensure the safety of all our students," Professor Dumbledore assured her. "In fact, people often say that Hogwarts is one of the safest places on earth."

"As long as there are no dragons," Hermione's father said darkly.

Hermione felt guilty about listening at the door, so she quickly pushed it open and came inside. Her father was pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace looking flustered, and her mother sat, holding Professor Dumbledore's long piece of wood and looking at it critically.

"Oh, thank you, Hermione," she said distractedly, when she saw Hermione standing at the door. Then she seemed to look at the struggling little man properly and Hermione thought she saw her face pale.

Professor Dumbledore stood at the window, smiling out at the garden through the rain. It was starting to fall more heavily now.

"Well, I'll give you and your parents time to think about what you'd like to do," Professor Dumbledore said, looking down at Hermione. "I'd best be off, I have a few other families to visit before it gets too late. I'll be back in a week to collect your decision."

He retrieved the stick from Hermione's mother, and Hermione and her parents followed him out into the hall, Hermione still feeling rather numb with shock. Professor Dumbledore paused at the door, as though sensing that there was something important she wanted to ask.

"Er—Professor Dumbledore," Hermione said.

"Yes?"

"Is it possible for a—witch—to make all the words disappear from a book report by accident while she was reading it in front of the class?"

Professor Dumbledore seemed to be trying not to smile. "Very possible," he said gravely. "Especially if the witch happened to be especially nervous about speaking in front of people at the time."

"And Hogwarts would teach someone how—not to do that?"

"Most certainly," said Professor Dumbledore.

Hermione smiled, feeling immensely relieved. She had thought that she'd just panicked and must be a terrible student—but here was an explanation for the bizarre phenomenon. Maybe she wouldn't mess up the spelling bee after all—if she could keep herself from getting too nervous.

"Oh—would you like your, ah, biscuit?" Hermione said shyly, holding the dangling little man out to him. He took it, and the moment it touched his palm it fell inanimate and flat, just a ginger biscuit once more.

"Hm, a bit dusty, but it will do," he said, examining it, and he tucked it into his dressing gown. "And I almost forgot—"

He reached into his pocket again, and this time he produced a thick, leather bound book and offered it to Hermione. "I think you might find this of interest," he said, smiling.

Her hands sunk under its weight as she took it, and she ran her fingers over its smooth leather cover and golden lettering. It had a musty, old book sort of smell, and the letters on the pages were so tiny that Hermione suspected she'd need a magnifying glass to read it properly.

_The Wizarding World: An Introduction, _by Juan Owan.

"Wow," she whispered.

Professor Dumbledore gave them a last smile and nod, and then he had disappeared out into the rain. Hermione stared after him, wondering how he possibly managed to fit so much in his pockets.

7

7


End file.
